


Every little part of me (is a part of you)

by feyrelay



Series: Genetic Heatwave [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Kink, Don't copy to another site, Fake Marriage, Father/Son Incest, Jealousy, M/M, POV Tony Stark, Pining, Praise Kink, Road Trips, Virginity Kink, Уточнять у автора
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 01:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18435953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: Sequel toStruck from a great height. You really gotta read that one first.Peter and Tony take a roadtrip, and get caught up with each other along the way.***I have never, will never, allow any reposting or translations of my works without my permission. All of my works will and shall only be hosted on my personal accounts on AO3 (feyrelay), Pillowfort (feyrelay).I no longer have a Tumblr.I do not have a Twitter account.I do not have a Wattpad account.Please Do Not Repost My Fics ANYWHERE, including but not limited to Goodreads, Ficbook.net, or Fanfics.me. If you would like to translate a work of mine or host a translation you may contact me to ASK about that, at feyrelayfiction@gmail.com. Уточнять у автора.





	Every little part of me (is a part of you)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1urx036e5iqb0ioukr2bj8yih/playlist/2fkyBPha5aM4jXX6hTWqHC?si=isCmKcIvRmWcF4xXbl00bg), now on Spotify! You can see my other playlists there if you dig around.

Eventually, Peter’s curiosity (that he got _from Tony and Maya_ , God) can no longer be contained, and Tony has to tell him the truth about the blood samples and FRIDAY’s flags.

He has to tell his son that in addition to the (adoptive) parents and uncle and aunt that he’s already lost, Peter’s biological mother is also dead… that she was killed and that Tony was there when it happened. Tony tells him about Aldrich Killian and he holds nothing back; he makes sure that Peter understands the extent to which the entire situation was Tony’s fault.

It’s a very large extent. (Peter deserves to know.)

Tony offers to have Rhodey or Pepper or Happy stay with Peter at the tower. He offers to leave and give Peter his space, indefinitely if need be. He wants to make room for Peter’s anger and grief which must be titanic, he thinks. Tony explains all this, and rises from his seat to go and pack a bag-

Peter clings. He’s shaking.

“Please, don’t leave. You’re the only one I have left.”

Tony blows out a breath. He hadn’t thought of it that way. He expected Peter to be sad or angry, not scared, but now that he thinks on it, it makes sense. (He remembers grief and the feeling that people were slipping through his fingers like grit off the finest sanding paper -- something meant to help him navigate and shave down the sharp edges of the world, suddenly lost to him.)

Peter interrupts his meandering simile. “Did you love her? When I was conceived, that time, did you love her?”

Tony winces. Peter sounds so… young. “I didn’t know her. But I like to think that I would have loved her, eventually, if I’d taken the time. She was brilliant, like you, and brave in the end. Beautiful.”

Peter nods, pensive. “It’s sad. You wanted the idea of her, but not the reality. I can’t mourn her or miss her, just the possibility of having a mom. It’s… wrong, somehow. I wish I knew more about her life, about what made her _her_ , separate from her connections to you and me.”

And Tony feels _shame_. He’s ashamed that his twenty-something of a son has a better grasp on loss and remembrance and the agency of a victim than he ever has. He’s always struggled to define people outside of what they made him feel about himself. (Frequently: guilt.)

He covers the moment by clapping a hand to Peter’s shoulder. “Maybe we can…”

“Can we do a little digging? Maybe. Maybe a road trip?” Peter asks tentatively. His hands are clasped, white-knuckled, in his lap.

 _He’s afraid I’ll say ‘no’_ , Tony realizes.

“Of course, kiddo; we’ll make it a graduation present. I’ll plan it and we can go as soon as your diploma comes in the mail. I wanna be here to get that.”

(He’d been so proud.)

It was time to make Peter proud, now.

\---

They end up on the road and on a wild goose chase. Maya Hansen had been from everywhere and nowhere, reinventing herself every time her university funding had been pulled and given to the football team.

Everyone they talk to tells the same, sad story. A brilliant girl, (“You mean _woman_ ,” Peter corrects, every time), a brilliant idea, and the skills to make it come true. She’d just been lacking in funds.

And, in the end, Tony figures, she’d also been lacking in patience. To turn to _Killian_...

Peter crosses the Rubicon between their motel beds, snuggling into his father’s side. He hadn’t wanted fancy hotels or anything like that, had told Tony that it felt like spitting on the memory of his mother’s struggle.

Tony wonders if that’s the real reason, or just an excuse for them to share a room, then feels bad for wondering.

“Y’alright, kiddo?” Tony says to the stifling dark.

“Yeah,” Peter breathes into his neck. “Just needed to be touched. Held.”

Tony feels faint surprise at how forthcoming his adult son is being about that need, but covers it. Or, at least he tries to, but his arms tighten themselves and he has to comment, “Must be missing that bastard, Harry Osborn, huh?”

“Nah,” Peter replies quietly. “Good riddance. He reminds me of the Killian dude, T-B-H.”

“T-B-H?” he repeats, feeling the smile overtake him. “What is that supposed to mean? Speak English.”

“To be honest,” Peter huffs, explanatory.

“I knew that. Anyway. You can always be honest with me, baby,” Tony reminds him. He doesn’t know where the endearment comes from, just knows that he likes the quiet and the way Peter’s exhales pool against his collarbone, a little puddle of carbon dioxide for Tony to drown himself in, probably.

“Can I?” Peter murmurs, almost flat. His voice barely sounds inquisitive, and Tony doesn’t know if that’s because Peter believes with all his heart that he _can’t_ trust Tony, or that he _can_.

It scares him that his son might not know, that he might not be sure.

“Always,” Tony reassures them both. “I’d burn the world to keep you warm. You know that.”

“Just one bad day from becoming a supervillain, huh, Daddy?” Peter chuckles, rubbing his cheek along Tony’s shoulder.

Tony freezes, tensing. Peter appears to notice it instantly and goes to pull away, but Tony tightens his arms further to prevent that. They’re going to talk about this, dammit.

“Peter…”

“No, I’m sorry, okay? I know you wouldn’t become a supervillain. It was just a joke. Please,” Peter murmurs, wriggling in Tony’s arms with what sounds alarmingly like shame.

Tony makes a split-second decision and lets it go. He loosens his arms, but doesn’t pull away from Peter entirely. “You’d stop me even if I did, wouldn’t you, kid?”

Peter pauses and waits for a moment before answering, “Only if you promise you’d stop me, too.”

Tony swallows and shifts so that they’re facing each other, unseeing with the lack of light. “I stop you all the time, don’t I? I don’t think you could ever really be evil, but if things did go that way… you know I’d do what’s best for you. I want you to be healthy and grow up good, okay? I know you will.”

(I already grew up, Peter doesn’t say. Tony hears it, though, in the way Peter shifts himself under the sheets and gives up any pretense of going back to his own bed.)

Tony wanted a real answer though, so he prompts Peter with a quiet, “Right, son?”

He slides his hand up Peter’s arm, feeling the little hairs there prick up as he goes. Tony settles for cupping Peter’s face so he can feel Peter nod. The younger man always forgets when he’s on the phone that people can’t see him nod, and now is no different, in the dark of their room.

He leaves his hand there, thumb brushing back and forth until the muscles of Peter’s jaw relax and he melts into the pillow, fast asleep.

Tony’s palm burns.

\---

Tony hits him with it, a week later.

(Wait, back up.)

He found Peter leaning against the hot concrete of a truck stop in Missouri, one Converse-clad foot braced against the wall ‘round the side, free knee and thigh angled wide to allow some cowboy-looking motherfucker to palm at the inseam of Peter’s skinny jeans. The Brokeback Mountain Wannabe’s face is far too close to Peter’s by the time Tony’s voice is recovered enough to shout.

The sound sends the snake scattering, but Peter doesn’t even jump. He just licks his lips as Tony approaches him, and it sets his blood to boiling. He shoves his son’s requested Sprite into the kid’s chest.

“Here,” he says tersely, “...since you’re apparently thirsty.”

Tony uncaps his own bottle of water and gets a single good sip down before Peter says, “Thank you, Daddy,” and has him spluttering.

Tony snaps and dumps the rest of his water over Peter’s head, desperate to put whatever fever has taken over Peter on ice and-

“If you wanted me wet for you, Daddy, all you had to do was-”

Tony slaps him with an open palm.

The water on Peter’s face amplifies the sound and, presumably, the sting of it and Tony is horrified-

There’s a red mark and Peter is gasping-

Tony reels back and his not-thoughts are not-full of, of, of (don’t say his name) _Howard_ , but Peter grabs for him. He catches Tony’s wrist and they’re both still for an interminable moment. Peter’s eyes are very wide and very dark; he looks a decade younger than he is, looks more like he did the first day Tony saw him -- fourteen and desperate to be wanted.

“Do it again,” he breathes and Tony. And Tony. And Tony.

“Get in the car,” Tony spits, voice full of gravel.

“No, please, Daddy, _please_ -”

“Now, Peter!” he tosses over his shoulder, already halfway to the car. He expects to be obeyed, (God, _please_ ) for once, for once, for once. (It would be only _once_ -)

“I’m _sorry_ , okay,” Peter pleads, “I’m so sorry, sir, I. I’m-”

“Peter, Jesus fucking Christ, get in the fucking car,” he commands, for what he hopes is the last time. Tony turns and sees that Peter has moved away from the wall, off the sidewalk, tears tracking down his face (or maybe it's water). He’s standing in the middle of the fire lane, for fuck’s sake.

Peter twists the ends of his shirt in his hands, guilty, then pulls up his hem to swipe at his face, ridding himself of both tears and sweat. (And water and the slap itself, Tony's red-handed transgression made flesh.)

Tony is, instead, treated to miles of pale skin and heroic abs.

“C’mon, you’re gonna get run over. Fuck!” He slams his hand down on the hood of the bright red Audi, mean and loud and reckless. He swears because it hurts both more and less than he wanted it to, taking his eyes off Peter to lean into the pain, pressing his palm into the hot metal, letting it burn.

Peter pulls Tony’s hand away from the scorching hood, but he does so silently and by pinching Tony’s cuff; their skin doesn’t touch. Peter gets in the car.

Tony stares into the hotrod finish of the thing, drips sweat like a nosebleed onto it.

Peter is silent when he finally gets in and starts her up, but the A/C is on.

\---

They’re supposed to be sticking to back roads and staying in little mom-and-pop motels, but Tony has had _enough_. He drives straight to St. Louis, and uses the on-board uplink to FRIDAY to book a suite at the nicest hotel available.

Peter doesn’t say a word.

The entire way there, Tony focuses on the work of shifting gears and merging and navigating and just _driving_ until all he can see and feel is road (and Peter’s scared little breaths beside him that get slower and longer over time, but don’t exactly _calm…_ ).

“Turn on the radio,” he barks, afraid to take his hands off the wheel just now.

Peter obeys for once in his life and the Audi is filled with the plaintive strains of REO Speedwagon as they tune in to some backwater oldies station. It somehow makes everything worse, because Tony knows the album, _Hi Infidelity_ , and that thought sets up shop for a little humming, self-important voice in his head that keeps saying: _he owes you no fidelity, old man_.

The leather of the steering wheel squeaks under his hands.

( _You’re not his lover_.)

“We need to talk about this,” he says quietly, over a commercial break that Peter, intuitive, had lowered the volume for.

“No, we don’t,” Peter returns, too quick, as if he was only waiting for Tony to speak first.

Tony takes a cleansing breath, but Peter has more to say.

“I’m sorry, for the record,” he says before Tony can begin arguing again. He sounds more like himself, more like an adult.

(Tony’s not sure he likes it.)

“Listen, you… don’t have to apologize. I’m the one who hit you, and I swore I’d never. I’m sorry I broke my promise. No excuses… just. You understand I was scared? You didn’t know that man.”

Peter makes a racket adjusting his seat and leaning back a little, sighing through pursed lips in the world’s quietest, longest sigh. “Yeah, no, I didn’t. I thought… I thought that might make it easier.”

“What, exactly? What’s so difficult right now, that needs to be made easier?” Tony asks, automatically wanting to fix it, whatever it is. It’s what he does. Then, of course, he remembers they’re on a trip spurred solely by grief and with the goal of finding out more about Peter’s dead mother, and he feels like an ass. He adds, “I mean, I understand this is rough on you, but what could that guy help you with that I couldn’t?”

Peter lets that question hang for a moment, waiting for the music to come back. Over Tom Petty, Tony tries his best to shut up and listen as his son tries to explain his uncharacteristic behavior. It’s not easy, with Peter rambling through several points, some nonsensical. Peter’s doing that mumbling thing they both do when they’re caught out, talking about tikka masala and Iron Maiden and choking and Tony’s head is spinning-

“...And I don’t understand, because which is it? Am I supposed to fuck other people or wait for something that’s never gonna happen, because you can’t… Dad? Dad?!”

They ramble off the side of the road, the incline off the shoulder stealing their speed enough that -- later, according to someone who looks like they know what they’re talking about -- they only hit the tree at about 40mph.

Small mercies.


End file.
